


The Starling's Lament

by ctt



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctt/pseuds/ctt
Summary: Charles has one wish, to see Erik as he was before. Before their world was shattered by death and violence.





	The Starling's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG13
> 
> Genre: Angst, Slash, AU
> 
> Warning: Captivity, Consent issues, Stockholm syndrome
> 
> Disclaimer: This story in no shape or form accurately depicts Stockholm syndrome and any psychological problems a person may / can develop during captivity.
> 
> Recent Notes: An old work of mine which I am still fond of
> 
> Older Notes:
> 
> This story is inspired by this prompt: (please remove spaces)
> 
> xmen-firstkink. livejournal 3278. html ? thread = 3989710#t3989710
> 
> I say only inspired since I didn't follow it faithfully. Should you wish for a more faithful rendition of this prompt, there is a lovely wip linked to the prompt by tahariel. Please note that the stories is unbetaed and all mistakes are mine.

**The Starling's Lament**

.

.

_Today I dreamed._

_I was at the streets of Paris once again, walking. It was raining. A veritable downpour as I skipped past the shops with Raven at my side. We were laughing, giggling like school children playing hooky. Having set out to explore, we found ourselves lost instead._

_It was glorious._

_We flittered to and fro; stumbling upon patisseries, munching on macaroons. Raven's cheek stuffed full like a chipmunk. Peering into used bookshops. The smell of musty books heavy in the damp. Warming ourselves inside cozy bistros, the air heavy with the pitter-patter of rain._

_It was late when we tried to get back our bearings. The hands of my watch signaled the late afternoon. Girding ourselves for the end of our adventure, we let our feet lead us back to St. Honoré. Our footsteps in time with the beat of the rain. My ears were awash with the sound of the downpour. Fingers numb from holding the umbrella aloft. I found myself alone in a courtyard, the Tower of Bastille in the horizon._

_It had stopped raining._

.

* * *

.

.

In his youth, Charles Xavier dreamed of adventure. His childhood days were filled with games and he and Raven imagined themselves as traveling artists or errant knights. They would troll through the halls of Westchester, generally making a nuisance upon themselves on the household staff.

He never lost this desire as he grew older. He had simply set his energies to the burgeoning field of genetics. Hightailing to Oxford and loosing himself like-minded academics or just stomping through various European sites with Raven at his side. The world seemed open before him back then, back then.

When he looks at his life right now, he is amazed at the four corners he currently inhabits. Small and predictable it has become, he can easily tell what is to happen day by day, week by week, months, years even.

In the mornings, it is often too clear how all that he has lived has become distilled in four rigid walls. Everyday he wakes to a dream with a heavy beating heart and Erik's hands running a soothing caress at his back. Erik asks him the same question day by day.

"What is it?" Erik would whisper in the pre-dawn light.

"Nothing," is his equally constant reply.

All his mornings begin with this. Always, it follows the same well-trodden route from the first whispered words to the final image of a retreating back. It is strange to think that way, but he does feel like a voyeur at this moment. Day by day, he would simply sit and watch Erik in his morning routine. Avidly he would watch as if he has not seen the sheer mundane actions displayed every morning. Truly, he knows it by heart. Knows the exact time he will receive a goodbye kiss. A light brush of lips that would turn warm and blistering. In 15 minutes past six, he will cling not wanting it to end. Wanting just a minute, a second longer. It wouldn't be so as Erik will detangle himself from Charles' arms. He will leave. The door clicking shut. Charles will find himself all alone, waiting.

Silence will fill the room. An empty sort of solitude. Charles will always find his eyes drawn towards the ticking clock. Eyes will track the stilted ever-faithful hands.

_4 minutes 27 seconds and counting…_

He, Charles, will rush out of his huddle. Fling the blanket away from his body. Stumble to the wide windows, all to catch a glimpse of Erik's retreating form. He will stay watching all the tall lean figure disappears. Never mind that Erik will not look back. He has never looked back. Charles will stay with his forehead leaning against the cool glass, unmoving, unblinking. A doll that waits for its master.

For how long?

He doesn't know.

And so the next day this will begin again.

.

* * *

.

.

_I dreamed today of Paris. Paris and the deluge of rain. Dreamed of Raven and I skipping it's streets like explorers of old. We flittered and dashed through its nooks and crannies 'til I lost her. 'Til I was all alone in the courtyard with the Bastille a murky picture in the horizon._

_Rain has ended._

_._

* * *

_._

_._

It wasn't always like this. His life that is. He isn't talking about his wild youthful days wherein he trawled and made merry in the pubs of Oxford. More of, it is those heady days when he shaped young minds that he could not help but look back. Or those days when he stood by his peers and marveled at headless rush of discoveries they were all uncovering. Those days when he and Raven would sit at their favorite café, doing nothing but talk. When she and Erik would come and meet him for their monthly jaunts. The weekly chess games with Erik smiling wickedly across him. Simple pleasures of being able to mingle with the milling mass of humanity. Stifling heat in the summer. Fresh spring air. The nip of autumn. Wintry chill.

.

There is really nothing to say. The life he led was as ordinary as it can be, as human as he is. But whatever anyone could say about it, it was his life. It was fully his and carved by his very own hands. Not like now, when he sometime feels like a ghost in his very own existence.

.

This is his life now, nothing but a pale shadow of a shadow. The empty halls. The echoing silence. The scritch scratch of the gramophone with no ear to listen but his own. The rattling doorknob. An unopened door.

.

* * *

.

.

It didn't happen in an instant. Life was once a open field the seemed to stretch out to forever. Then it shrunk and shrunk with every simple small thing he found himself giving up.

How could he not? He had lived in the cusp of a revolution. Seen it happen and is living in its aftermath. The world had changed, and so should he.

And he did.

.

He doesn't blame anyone every time he reaches out and is able to touch the all too familiar corners of his life. He made that decision when Raven had snuck upon him.

"I want you safe Charles," she whispered at the beginnings of the revolt.

He nodded when Erik took his hand and enveloped his body with his own cape.

"I'll keep you safe Charles," he murmured solemnly as the world burned.

He wrapped Erik in his promise when the man came home devastated. Raven, dead.

"Est tut mir leid," Erik sobbed out as he crushed Charles to his grieving form. "I won't fail this time. You'll always be safe."

He had acquiesced, nodded and swore. He wanted them happy and at peace. What is one more snip in the ever-shortening boundaries of his life?

.

Charles has made his bed, and he has long ago lain in it.

.

* * *

.

.

_Today I dreamed of Paris in fall. Crimson leaves were dancing at the courtyard. I was alone. Raven was long gone. In her stead was a starling, a starling in a cage._

_The leaves rustled in the hushed silence. The Bastille, a shadowy sentinel in the horizon._

.

* * *

.

.

Sometimes, Charles admits a vague feeling of discontent. There are moments in the morning when Erik asks that he feels the urge to say more than nothing. It is not that he has kept Erik unaware of his feelings. Truly, both of them know that nothing is just another word for we will not talk about it. What for anyhow? The decision has long ago been made. To bring to light the fractured reality that they are currently living in would only bring devastation.

Every time these weary thoughts enter his mind, Charles would remember Erik. He would worry about the ever-deepening shadows that fill the beloved blue eyes. He would mourn the gentle thin slash of a mouth that had begun to crystallize into a blade. When Erik returns to him and he sees the dearly loved features soften and the eyes clear, Charles knows he has made the right decision.

.

Charles would always remember the last day he was allowed to ramble on the grounds of the estate. He had been restless, lonely back then. He had seen too little company for so long. The household staff had now been barred from interacting with him. The guards have become distant sentinels that shadowed his movements. He could barely speak to Sean about the household accounts. Alex and Janos were now distant figures in the horizon as they watched from afar. It had been weeks since Henry last visited to natter about the latest breakthroughs. Even Emma's telepathic brushes have gained a wary almost apologetic tone.

It had come to a shock when Erik suddenly appeared with Azazel at his side. His hand was suddenly grasped into a vise-like grip as he was dragged back to the manor. He remembers meeting Azazel's worried yet diffident eyes, but all his attention had turned to Erik. Charles had struggled, demanded answers that were not given until his confusion had turned to annoyance. As the door slammed shut behind them, he had readied a scathing observation. It died on his lips. Charles found himself staring at Erik's bowed form, his trembling hands.

"Erik," he cajoled, gently tugging with his captured wrist. It was an effort of his to shake Erik out of his stupor. It did not prepare him for the flurry of movement as he suddenly found fingers digging painfully into his arms, staring at wild desperate eyes.

"Never go out," Erik spits out as he shakes him. "Promise me Charles, never go out. Promise me!"

The last words were a shout that echoed in the empty halls. A sharp sound that reeked with desperation and fear.

"What's going on," he implores. He watches Erik as he seemed to fold within himself at the question. Seconds, maybe minutes pass.

"We found a list by the friends of humanity," Erik speaks in a voice teeming with exhaustion. "You are the third person in it, charged with treason for consorting with mutants and betraying humanity. Your sentence is death."

Charles doesn't know what to think of that news. He knows he has done precious little in his life. He thinks of himself as simply a teacher and just another geneticist in the ever-widening field. For all his vocal support of mutants and all his missions of mercy, he has always seen it as his duty and his privilege as an educator, a brother, a friend, a human being. It's one of the things anyone would have done.

He stares at Erik in confusion and disbelief. It garners him a fond smile. He feels a rough thumb caress his cheek.

"The world can be a bigoted place Charles," Erik murmurs softly, regretfully. "Allow me to keep you safe," he pleads. "I won't lose you, just as we both lost Raven. Bitte."

Charles closes his eyes. He nods. He gets a sense perhaps he has already signed too much away, yet the sight of Erik's frantic gaze is something he can never stand. He can barely help the man he loves. If he could give, help with this small thing, so be it. He is crushed in a bruising embrace. He buries his face on a broad chest. Breathes the familiar scent of comfort ad signs his whole life in Erik's hands.

.

The next day, he attempts his daily walk. The knob jingles. The front door does not open.

.

A week passed. He stares uncomprehendingly at the broadsheets. The dark splash of blood was a sharp contrast to the jagged black lines.

**Government Condemns Terrorist Organization, Friends of Humanity, for Its Near Fatal Attack on Charles Xavier, Leading Geneticist and Mutant-Human Integration Advocate.**

Before he could begin reading, it was snatched from his hands. Erik's furious features meet his sight. The mouth was a thin slash while the paper crinkled in the white-knuckle grip. No words were said.

There was no paper the next day or the day after.

.

Days later, the radio blares.

" **Breaking news. Government ends the worse hostage crisis of the post-human generation by a daring raid at the headquarters of the Friends of Humanity. Reports indicate there were no mutant casualties. All members of the terrorist group have been exterminated during the…"**

Silence. He looks up and finds himself meeting Erik's searching and intense gaze.

Charles licks his suddenly dry lips. The events feel false. There is a niggling knowledge at the back of his mind.

 _'Tell me it was not done in my name,_ ' he wants to say. He wants to believe it is so. He keeps his silence then. Instead, he busies himself. Looks away. He attempts to switch the radio back on. The ring he wears tightens. His watch yanks his hand back to the table. Charles leaves the machine off.

The radio was gone the next day. Only the gramophone remained and a stack of new records. Charles stares at it for a minute. Strange, his hands were shaking. A sigh escapes his lips. He tries the new record. The needle hums and slitters in the heavy silence. His gaze travels to the window. The gardens were a picture, separated and unreachable by glass and four stone walls.

.

_It is painful. But no matter how painful it is, it has to be worth it._

.

* * *

.

.

_Paris was my dream today. Paris and blood-red autumn. I was all alone in the courtyard with the Bastille as a dark monolith in the horizon. With me was a starling, a starling in a cage._

" _I can't get out," said the starling._

_The leaves lay still in the stone floors like a field of crimson poppies._

.

* * *

.

.

Charles admits it was never easy to understand the reasons for his situation. There was a time he could not swallow the boundaries imposed on him. In reality, he is not even certain who was right or wrong that time even up to now. He had desperately wanted to see Raven, but he was denied. But he so wanted to, to see her one last time.

He fought and argued with Erik. Debated. Brought out all his skill learned in the hallowed halls of Oxford. Strangely exhilarated, nostalgia crept to him.

"You're a stubborn prat Charles!" Raven once muttered as she at last manage to bully him to rest. His mind and body too worn by countless of nights spent hunched at the beginnings of his thesis.

His mind flashed back to those bygone days when he approached any problem and obstacle with the tenacity of a pit-bull.

"It's too dangerous," Erik at last roared at the end of his teeter. The metal fixtures rattled. Charles felt the golden band on his finger tighten. "Why do you need to see it? It's not as if you could really care," Erik spat viciously. "You're not a mutant."

Charles feels an answering rage bubble at those words. At the back of his mind, he knows it is just a way to dissuade him. Nothing more, nothing less. But it is still a vicious stab at the heart, unthinking and cruel.

"It's not as if you have the world's monopoly of grief," he snaps back. "She was my sister! I saw her grow up. How dare you?"

His voice breaks. His whole body heaves at the pent up emotions that he could not even name any longer. Erik tries to reach for him. He glares, freezing the man mid-motion. Comforted he does not want to be.

"I have every right to say good-bye."

.

He gets his wish. His one and only victory. Erik was a warm presence at his side as he stared at the tombstone still gleaming new. The fresh offerings of grief were scattered around the white stone yet they were alone. There was no soul in sight. There was only him, Erik, and the dead.

Charles feels a pang of sadness as he reads in inscription in Raven's grave. The moniker she had used in her days in the Brotherhood and as a public figure stands out in his sight. Mystique, it reads, not Raven. It is the shrewd political figure, not his sassy little sister.

"Look Charles," Erik speaks, breaking him out of his mussing. Charles' eyes were drawn to the corner of the slab, a cleverly hidden loose piece of marble that reveals a simple brass plaque. It gleams in the sunlight.

.

_Raven Darkholme_

_Beloved Sister_

_May she rest in peace._

_._

Gratitude floods him. Reverently, he runs his fingers at the raised letters, before he at last allows Erik to cover it once again. He half expects them to leave. They do not. To his surprise he is tugged down to the grass and is presented with a chess set.

"Do you remember when Raven used to watch us play?"

Erik speaks fondly, watching as his curious gaze transforms into delight. A smile tugs Charles' lips.

"Of course, she would call us old farts." He shakes his head in tender remembrance. His mind going back the Raven's dark thunderous scowls as she would call them that. "But she'll always watch us."

"What do you think?" Erik coaxes. "Let's be her old farts again, one last time with her."

He simply smiles and smiles. They played, again and again, 'til the sun started to dip in the horizon.

One last time.

.

* * *

.

.

_My dream today was of Paris and snow. I stood in the courtyard. It was empty except for a starling, a starling in a cage._

" _I can't get out," said the starling._

_All my attempts to free it failed. My fingers were too clumsy, the lock rusted too tight. Apologies were the only thing I could give._

_The snow continued to fall. The Bastille an ominous backdrop in the drifting white flakes._

.

* * *

.

.

It has to be worth it, Charles believes. He thinks it must be. You see he has promised Raven. His dear little sister who asked for so little. What could he do but give his word. After all, he had lost so little during the course for his life, he must have some more to spare. In fact people have sneeringly called his life a fairytale. In a fashion, it must be so.

.

Wealthy parents. Beloved child.

_Daddy left even if he never wanted to when fate came a-knocking. That is what accidents are for._

.

Violent stepfather. Despised son.

_Mummy could never stand me. I look too much like father. She turned to stepfather instead, but he only gave her more reason to drown herself in her own grief._

.

An adored sister who adored him as well.

_Raven always accused him of being ashamed of her. But she couldn't understand, I just wanted her safe._

.

A sister who he could never save. He was never strong enough. The mob took her and he couldn't do anything. One day, she was laughing with him as she turned to go; and the next day, he waited yet she never came back. She was dead.

That day stood clearly in Charles' mind. The deafening bang of the door being flung open as he raised startled eyes. He could only gape at sight of Erik, dusty and smeared with blood, before he rushed to the man's side. The details blur in his mind after that. He only can conjure Erik's crushing embrace. The hoarse grief-stricken voice murmured apologies over and over again, demanding forgiveness. He could say nothing. Mute, his mind was a static riddled machine. He could only stand and be held.

.

" _Promise me you'll stay safe and do take care of Erik,"_ Raven tells him with a teasing twinkle in her eye, her last words to him.

" _Promise me you'll never be like your father, leaving those that love him behind,"_ Mother wheezes against the beeping machines.

" _Promise me that you'll take care of you mother for me,"_ Father tells him before he turns to go and never returns.

A fairytale it is. Nearly all he loves dies, and all that is left of them are deathbed promises.

.

* * *

.

.

He mourned Raven the only way he can. He mourns her as a brother should, and not the flashy pomp and circumstance her funeral has become. He thinks she would have laughed herself silly at the sight of the almost-pretentious circus her passing has engendered. The posturing. The incessant outpouring of grief. The vengeance-riddled speeches.

Maybe not though, when he thinks further. In the past few months of their renewed friendship, Charles was struck at her sheer brazen confidence and her shrewd political mind. He had underestimated Raven before. He shouldn't. She would have understood the necessity of symbolism.

.

"Smile Charles," Raven would knowingly tease him. "Erik needs to see those lively baby blues of yours and that ring round your finger."

.

Charles does not join the public funeral. He is but human, an ordinary human. Raven's violent passing by humans has ignited a powder keg of rage. It is too fresh to add his presence in the stalwart show of mutant solidarity. Even he had to agree with Erik in the necessity of keeping him within the four walls of the estate. The now silent estate whose staff and guards have been banished from a distance by Erik in a fit of worry for his safety.

Charles instead spends endless hours playing the piano. All the tunes Raven had loved would echo through the empty hallways. He played and played until his finger trembled, his shoulders shook. Until all he heard was music. It is his last tribute to Raven. The beginning of his promise.

It is the beginning of empty halls. No more staff milling about, nor guards joking about. It is as if his life has come full circle, to have escaped the emptiness of Westchester only to come into another equally empty manor. He still remembers the first time the sight greets him as he steps out of their room. The expanse of bare echoing hallways. The deafening silence.

He sought out Erik in his concern. Found the man pacing like a caged tiger. Sean nearly wringing his hands in the barely leased violence Erik emanated. Alex and Janos were two stone-faced sentinels in the face of it.

"What's going on?" Charles speaks drawing the attention of all four men. "Where's everyone?"

Erik's intense gaze meets his. He vaguely notes the other three men leaving them to each other, but all his attention was with Erik.

"From now on you will only use and imbibe what Banshee gives you," Erik at last speaks. "Havoc or Riptide should always be part of your cadre of guards. Emma will always be in telepathic contact with you. If anything is out of the ordinary and the other three, Azazel, or Beast is not with you, you will call her."

Charles feels his incredulousness expand at every clip and pause in the speech. He certainly makes it well known. Surely this constant simmering cry for vengeance would slowly ebb with the catharsis of Raven's memorial service.

"One of the staff poisoned your tea," was the slap of reality. He grasps Charles' hand, fingers rubbing at the ring it wore. "We need to be careful for now. Everyone is at the edge and very angry. Please stay within the estate and its grounds. Be safe."

Charles could not help but respond to the earnest entreaty. "I'll be careful then,"

.

* * *

.

.

_Today I dreamed._

_I was in Paris in the dead white winter. I found myself alone in the courtyard with only a caged starling to keep me company._

" _I can't get out," said the starling._

_I wanted to free it but could not. My hands were stiff and frozen in the cold._

" _Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive…me…"_

_The Bastille loomed in the horizon._

.

* * *

.

.

Silence is a difficult adversary. It is an indifferent companion. Charles knows this too well.

In the early days, he found it difficult to tolerate its presence. He liked people. Always found joy in simple conversations. To find it all snatched away was nearly unbearable. Echoing sounds make poor companions.

Those days, he would find himself rushing out in the open, traversing one end of the grounds to another, one end of the estate to another. Anywhere where his mocking adversary would not be.

At times, he wished he could scream. Break the silence and bring footsteps running towards him. But he didn't. He couldn't. Every time he would take a big lungful of air, Erik's haunted face would flash in his mind's eye. A study of grief and guilt. The wild-eyed look of the lost that said that he, ordinary Charles, was the only anchor in this madness. He would remember Raven speaking, smiling with an amazed tilt in her head.

" _I'm glad you're here. Erik's happier you know. Before he was always chasing after ghosts, but now that you're here he seems to have found the land of the living."_

Charles keeps all of this close to his heart. He takes a deep breath and simple lets all his frustrations out. It's enough for him. He doesn't want to lose all he loves. You see he has only loved four people in his life. He has lost three without meaning to, he will fight to keep the last.

.

When Erik comes back to him at the end of the day, when his eyes lose that wild-eyed look a little a day; Charles tells himself, it's enough. Enough for another day.

.

* * *

.

.

_I had a dream today. A dream when the snow fell in Paris. A dream when the Bastille was a dark omen in the horizon._

_A caged starling cried out to me._

" _I can't get out," said the starling._

_Help it I could not. I, myself, was locked by the cold._

" _Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive…me…"_

" _No," said the starling._ _"I can't get out - I can't get out," said the starling._

_It had stopped snowing._

_._

* * *

_._

_._

It is enough. Charles cannot have any regrets. In the forefront of his mind, there is only one wish. He has this wish of seeing Erik as he was before. Erik with the arrogant tilt in his head. Erik with the self-assured smirk playing at his lips, the intense blue eyes. The man he fell in love with, before everything.

.

"So you're Mystique's brother," Erik murmured as he subjected Charles to a raking stare. "A pity you're human."

Surprise and embarrassment war with each other before Charles burst out in laughter. He does find it amusing, the sheer effrontery of the man. At the corner of his eye, he sees Erik's mouth twitch in answering amusement while Raven's expression slowly morph to dawning horror.

"Do you always greet people this way?" he replied once he gets his merriment under control.

"Only the pretty ones."

Charles received a toothy smirk, when he felt a answering smile curve his lips.

"I do hope you mean interesting as well," he murmured, making sure to roll his words longer and ever so subtly lean forward.

Before he could get a response, a disgusted sound draws their attention away from each other. Charles found himself staring a Raven's scowling visage as she spoke acerbically, "I didn't introduce you to each other just so you can eye-fu…"

"Raven," Charles squawked. "Language!"

"Go away," was Erik's response. His attention solidly on Charles as he slowly crowds the other's space.

Charles finds his attention drawn away from Raven. Not before seeing her rolling her eyes at them. He finds his new acquaintance so much more near that he undoubtedly had to look up.

"Erik Lehnsherr," was the belated introduction that was given.

A terribly giddy sensation enveloped his thoughts as rough-hewn palms grasp his hands.

"Terribly forward aren't you?" He spoke archly, taking a perverse pleasure in drawing out the answer to the unspoken question. He got a raised impatient brow in reply. Charles felt his smile stretch to a grin. "Charles Xavier. It's a pleasure to meet you."

.

.

* * *

Fin.

* * *

.

.

Translation:

Est tut mir leid – I'm sorry

Bitte - Please

.

Author's Note:

This story is inspired by the prompt:

" _Magneto is the ruler of the posthuman world._

_His only secret? Charles Xavier, the human he's kept locked in his bedroom ever since his right-hand woman, Mystique, came to him pleading for mercy for her stepbrother, who accepted her mutant form and protected her as a child. The human he started fucking after Mystique was killed in battle, despite the guilt he feels at contaminating even this last promise to the woman who was integral to his life's work and happiness."_

It's inspired only as I wasn't faithful to it. This story still takes place in the posthuman world with Magneto as its ruler. Charles is Magneto's human husband who he slowly through a series of circumstances locks away for his safety, especially as their world becomes increasingly violent and polarized between humans and mutants. This story also deals with Charles' series of justifications as his freedom is slowly curtailed.

The concept of the Bastille, the caged starling and its plea (I can't get out), is taken from Laurence Sterne's A Sentimental Journey. The line - "No," said the starling. "I can't get out - I can't get out," said the starling. – was taken directly from it.


End file.
